


Cut Loose

by why-the-hell-do-i-write (stillwater_writes)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Death, F/F, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, It's pure pain, JUST, M/M, Mental Manipuation, Self Harm, a character feels they deserve to die, but it'll be tagged anyway, i don't know if that counts, it's pain, more or less, there are sort of implications of suicide?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 10:53:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7798996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillwater_writes/pseuds/why-the-hell-do-i-write
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lonely marionettes hang on a string. They danced, and danced and danced away. But the show is over now. What happens when they're cut free?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cut Loose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hawkefeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hawkefeathers/gifts).



> So this is a lovely piece of angst born because of an Anon ask over on the lovely visor76 ‘s blog. The basic premise was that Talon used some sort of mental manipulation device on Reaper and Widowmaker to make them fight. And well, I just had to write it.
> 
> In case you didn't read the tags:  
> Warnings for: Lots of character death. I mean it. Very high body count fic. Self harm, self-loathing, mental manipulation, and thoughts of suicide sort of? A character feels they deserve to die.

_It’s done._ Reaper stares impassively down at his latest targets, now reduced to nothing more than shredded flesh.

He was given a job, and did it. Simple as that.

He feels no guilt or remorse. Anger or hatred. Just takes the jobs offered to him when the payout is worth it or he’s particularly bored. No fuss. All in all, Talon has been a pretty good employer.

He kneels down, gloved hand knotting into white hair, pulling back the head of one of the bodies before him. Clouded and now glassy blue eyes greet him.  He studies the face for a minute, something about it bugging him slightly. Strong jaw, but the rest of is all soft lines. Scarred as hell, with the most prominent being two large slashes. Reaper tilts his head slightly. _This guy was also yelling something? What was it?_ His head tilts slightly further as he tries to recall. Nothing. _Guess I wasn’t paying attention. Doesn’t matter anyway. It’s probably just my shit memory playing tricks. Not like this wouldn’t be the first time. It’s happened before with other targets._ Despite dismissing the feeling, he moves to examine the other person.

He pulls her head up as well, gaze settling on a glassy brown eye, with some sort of marking under it. The other is covered in an eyepatch. Again, the face bugs him. Care worn and kind even in death. The creases around her mouth and the still deep shadows under her eyes mark her as a woman who carried a heavy burden. Reaper lets out a sharp huff and lets go of her head before standing up. _Doesn’t matter. I’ve got my job to do, and I do it._ He turns and walks off, dissolving into mist.

\----

Her breathing is slow and even. Her hands do not shake.

Widowmaker scopes out her targets, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

She’s back in King’s Row. And there won’t be a repeat of last time’s distraction. Never again.

_Adieu cher._

One shot cracks the quiet night. The cheerful Brit stops cold in the middle of her sentence, only having the time to glance at the hole through both her chest and the harness she wears. She disappears and instant later.

_Like mother, like daughter._

One shot hammers the crack larger. The captain flinches, her eyes growing wide for a spit second before she crumples.

_Au_ _ revoir _ _ mon _ _am i._

One shot shatters the night. The old knight is already in motion, staging a valiant but vain attempt to protect his comrades. He crashes to the cobblestone, both eyes now empty and lifeless.

Widowmaker turns away and grapples off, disappearing into the stars.

\----

“Sir” The director turns slightly, indicating he’s listening. “They’ve done it. Only the low risk are left.” He nods barely, and the reporting agent salutes and walks out. When the door quietly clicks shut, the director turns and looks out his office window at the gently setting sun. His fingers tease over the buttons on his small remote. A smug and triumphant grin creeps across his face.

“You’ve done well. But I’m afraid our involvement with each other is now terminated. Amélie. Gabriel. What wonderful marionettes you both made.” He depresses the gray button, a small light flicking to life. ‘But I’m sorry to say, the show is over.”

\----

Reaper’s walking down a dark alley leisurely before instantly ending up on the ground.

He’s curled up, agony splitting his head. Dimly he wonders if he’s going to die.

Images accost him, and it’s all he can do to keep from screaming.

A sunny city. A smiling and happy family. _His family?_ Disinterestedly scratching at an exam. His fist slamming into a person’s face while another person tightly grips the back of his jacket. _Is he... defending someone?_ Running around a house, yelling and laughing. Cooking under the guidance of a warm voice. _...mamá?_  Getting on a bus and looking back at somber but proud faces. Running an obstacle course while a demanding voice yells. _...what?_ A bright smile, blue eyes sparkling and gold hair shining in the sun. A tender and husky voice. ‘I love you Gabriel.’

He screams now, unable to suppress his suffering any further. His chest feels like it’s going to crack open. The emotions he’d lost rising up with a vengeance to join the memories.

The warmth and love he always felt seeing Jack. Their soft kisses and even softer voices. Their shared fear and excitement over the SEP. Then the Overwatch team. Long nights of drinking and laughing with everyone, stories to be told by all. Taking Jesse in. Guiding the kid down the path to redemption. His pride when he succeeded. Doing much the same for Genji. Helping him learn to live, at least partially, again. His guilt over what happens to the kid’s arm. Mourning beside Jack and the others for Ana. Trying to comfort a distraught and disbelieving Fareeah. Drifting apart, dealing with things in their own way. The... the conspiracy.

He stops screaming.

There were moles. Rats. He’s trying to warn Jack, to convince him to leave. It’s all a setup! The world rips apart in a halo of fire and sound. Blue armor disappears under flaming concrete. He falls into a rumbling abyss. It’s only pain. Then darkness.

Quiet voices. Is he alive? He can’t feel anything. Memories are fuzzy. ‘What a lovely toy. It just needs strings.’ He tries to scream. Memories, bits of him are vanishing. Who is he? What’s going on? What is...

Gabriel’s trembling. His hands have come to cradle his head.

‘You’re Reaper. A mercenary. Emotionless and remorseless. Every job done with ruthless efficiency.’ He’s handed a folder. ‘This is your first contract with us. From now on you’ll work for Talon. Now go. Overwatch needs to be taken down.’ He doesn’t question. He chose to work with them.

He’s breaking into the Watchpoint. So he could plant a virus in the monkey’s computer. _no... not monkey... Winston..._ The agents are useless. One slips, letting their captive free himself. Reaper sighs. He’ll have to do this himself. Shotgun blasts echo. The gorilla falls, trapped under one of the bits of junk in the lab. Bad luck. He tries to distract him, saying some nonsense about the others being here. Reaper doesn’t hesitate. Two echoing shots and blood spattered glasses fall.

His hands tighten on his head, claws digging into his hood. _no....._

He’s in Illios. The patchwork team never had time to reform. The call only reached a few. Reaper ghosts through the dark streets, and in a curtained window. His shotguns are out before he reforms. The blond woman starts, whipping a pistol out and shooting. It doesn’t matter. His mask breaks. She stares at him, eyes wide in shock and horror. ‘Gabriel... what happened to you...’ _...Angela..._ The pure white walls are decorated with red.

His hands tighten further, claws now shredding the black leather.

The sun beats down. He still feels cold. The cowboy yells at him, warning him to back off. That he doesn’t want to hurt him. _Jesse...?_ Reaper only stares. Bluffs are useless. The cowboy whips out his revolver, pupils contracting to pinpricks. His eyes promise swift death. Reaper just stands passively, and the shot rips through his head. The mask shatters again. He doesn’t care. The cowboy takes a step back, eyes widening in shock and horror. ‘Reyes! What are? How are? Why-’ Reaper leaps forward, pressing his shotgun to the man’s chest. His hat flutters to the ground, red serape covered in new, invisible stains as the desert sand is dyed red.

His grip tightens. More pain begins to invade his head. Gabriel’s so tense he feels like he’ll snap in half.

Cherry blossoms. The trees weep pink. The cyborg is heavily damaged, but still fights. His visor glows a weak green. _Genji...!_   ‘I know it is you under the mask! Commander please! Stop this! Remember!’ Reaper only closes a hand around his throat. The cyborg thrashes weakly, having lost too much blood and fluid to carry on. Reaper doesn’t even have to shoot him. He tosses the limp body off the cliff.

A keening whine begins in his chest. The pain gets worse. He starts to crack.

The house is rundown and ramshackle. A terrible safe house. Reaper crashes through the window. The two start, one turning a red masked gaze and pulse rifle to him, the other pulling a small dart gun out. The pulse shots are useless. Only managing to ruin his jacket and mask again. The dart is useless as well. The tranquilizers don’t find a bloodstream to pour into.

The pair freeze. Covered and uncovered face alike betraying shock, horror and... betrayal? ‘Gabe! Y-You’re alive?!’ ‘Gabriel! What did they do to you...’ Reaper doesn’t hesitate. Buckshot rips through leather and cloth. The mask clatters to the floor. Pain filled eyes stare through him. “Please Gabe... Don’t you...? You don’t hate us this much, do you?’ Reaper says nothing, unloading another shell. The body falls, expression unsettled even in death. He stares for a moment before kneeling down...

The whimper turns into full-fledged shrieking as Gabriel’s body convulses. Stabbing pain ices through his head where metal digs in. All he wants is to make it stop. To rip the images and thoughts from his head. _I KILLED THEM! THOSE I HOLD MOST DEAR! FAMILY! FRIENDS! JACK! I MURDEDRED THEM ALL! I’M MONSTER! A KILLER!_ The pain gets worse. There are sounds in the distance. _A MONSTER! Destined for hell..._ His thoughts quiet for a split second. _NO! HELL ISN’T DEEP ENOUGH!_ His body weakly twitches. _ETERNAL SUFFERING! WORSE THAN WHAT HELL CAN GIVE!_ The screams have stopped. Sirens get closer. _This pain... this is what I deserve. To be alone. Forever._

When the police arrive, investigating reports of a disturbance, they find no one. Just what looks like a pile of ashes from someone’s fireplace. They don’t see the ivory white shards, or the small pieces of metal. They leave, deaf to the ghost still wailing in agony.

\----

Widowmaker grapples across the rooftops, taking the jumps in stride. She’s never lost footing.

She heads to the top of the clock tower. From there she’ll go to the assigned meeting place.

She stands for a second, taking in the view. Even though the nuance of sentiment is lost on her, Widowmaker can still appreciate the simple things. She takes a few steps, before her body goes cold. Much colder than usual. Her rifle falls, and a quiet gasp escapes her lips before she topples.

She falls in slow-motion, as life and love lost to her flits by.

Dancing with her father in the living room, like a princess. Learning to fence from her mother. Some marital arts as well. The private school, with its strict but caring teachers and plain but comfortable uniforms. Late night sessions of talk and play with various friends. Watching movies, debating, anything. Listening to her father work. ‘The art of diplomacy,’ he’d said, ‘requires a very soft touch. You need to speak without aggression while not seeming meek. Appeal to someone without demanding or begging. It takes practice, much practice.’

A small, bittersweet smile quirks Amélie’s lips. _Ah. How could I forget?_

Studying to be a diplomat herself, and excelling. Able to read the mood of the room just by entering. Able to talk into being even the most unobtainable of deals. Watching as the Omnic crisis rose and fell, and Overwatch was born. Applying and receiving news that she’s been accepted. Informing her parents of the job. ‘I’m so very proud of you.’ Her father had hugged her tightly. ‘As am I, but please,’ her mother was next, ‘take care of yourself. It could be dangerous.’ Amélie had laughed lightly, offering comfort and reassurances. _‘I’ll be fine’_

The smile turns sad. _Yes. I’ll be fine._

Walking through those crowded and hectic halls, nervousness coiling in her. Meeting heroes and ordinary people alike. Field agents and researchers. Fighters and scholars. The warm and jovial greeting of Reinhardt. The old knight made it his personal mission to greet everyone. Or at least as many people as he could. The man had boundless energy despite his age.

_Rest well. I’m sorry that it had to end this way._

Speaking with Ana, One of the Overwatch founders she looked up most too. Such a strong woman. Never took any sort of sass from anyone. And was able to do what she did while raising a daughter. Fareeah. Such a sweet child. Amélie so loved seeing her. Weaving the young girl’s hair into different styles and painting her nails.

Tears of grief and self-loathing form in her eyes. _It seems I am the scourge on your family._

Meeting the two she loved. The young test pilot, with her thick accent and boundless energy. She’d flirted relentlessly with Amélie, who was only too happy to reciprocate. Her loss was devastating. Is devastating.

_Mon cher. I’m sorry._ A deep chill settles insider her chest. It has nothing to do with her failing body.

Gérard. With his traditionally plain looks and exceptionally large heart. He’d offered comfort, in the most exceptional of ways. Leaving little notes on her desk, or offering to carry papers whenever they crossed paths. Offering soft complements and words of advice. They’d been so perfect with each other. He even insisted that he didn’t care that Amélie still longed to see, to love the lost pilot. So long as she was okay, he was happy.

_Oh Gérard. You cared so deeply. And that love was so brutally turned against you._

She clearly remembers being taken by Talon, drugs and chemicals forced into her system. So much pain and suffering. She fought back, in the desperate hopes of returning home. She did, though not quite as herself. Amélie was altered slightly, her will shifted into a manipulated one. She still knew though. Knows. About everything she’s done.

Killing her sweet husband in his sleep. The countless other targets over the years. The kind climatologist who worked with Overwatch, out of touch with the world after having been cryogenically frozen for so long. Numerous members of the Russian liberation front. Weakening the organization to make them and easy target for Talon to ensnare. The Shimada clan, crippling it further after both heirs disappeared. The peaceful monk, purely in the hopes of sewing chaos and unrest.

A resigned and peaceful look spreads across Amélie’s face as the base of the tower approaches.

She understands now. A marionette, held up by Talon’s strings. That’s all she was. Gabriel too. Oh, how shocked she’d been seeing him in their employ. The man who vehemently fought to bring Talon down, willingly in the fold and seemingly without memory of his animosity.

_Do you understand Gabriel? Do you now know what happened?_

Her eyes drift shut to the glittering tears floating above her. The chill settles further.

_We were played for fools you and I. Made to do this of our will. Or perhaps you were forced into this, made to kill without knowing. Did they take you away? Replace the heroic man with an empty construct?_

She can sense the ground rushing up to meet her.

_Poor soul. You were always so sensitive. Even if you didn’t want to admit it._

She lets out one last, soft breath. Even if she could have saved herself, she wouldn’t have.

_I have made my peace. One cannot kill without being resigned to die._

Her body noiselessly slams to the cobblestone.


End file.
